Bring me a parachute!
It was one of those trips...
The mighty COAST GUARD CUTTER LAUREL had just spent the previous five weeks working ATON (Aids to Navigation…the fancy term for buoys) in and around San Juan harbor.
This particular buoy run began on Halloween 1991, and if you are a keen observer of nautical history, that means something. The “Unnamed Storm” of 1991 that crushed the North Atlantic and famously became Sebastian Junger’s “Perfect Storm” had just passed. This storm, battering the New England coast a thousand miles to the north, sent waves and waves (and by waves, I’m talking some serious, meclizine jonesing swells) cascading down the eastern seaboard; LAUREL spent five days—which should have been a four-day trip—beam to the swell system or as I like to remember fondly; “living on the bulkheads”. Now the 180’ WLB (Ocean Going Buoy Tender), retired a few years ago, was a fantastic Coast Guard cutter…however, it road like a football in any seaway. Rolling from side to side became a vocational trade aboard…it wasn’t fun, but the story starys a bit.
LAUREL had finished her assigned workload despite breaking down with an MDE (main diesel engine) casualty for five days. Our estimated ETA to Mayport was approximately (author’s aside: I hate it when people say estimated, approximately and ETA together—drives me crazy!!) Thanksgiving morning at 0800, but (“but” the ubiquitous and quite frankly nondescript word that gives way to so many sea stories) the Haitian government had recently undergone significant upheaval, and Coast Guard assets across the Atlantic were streaming toward GTMO to help prevent a maritime disaster. Haitian migrants were taking to the sea in anything that could float and some things that couldn’t.
Upon departing GANTSEC (San Juan), District 7 (our boss in Miami) briefed the LAUREL CO (Commanding Officer) that they may need us to divert and assist with the relief effort. LAUREL left San Juan with just enough food to make it back to Mayport and not much extra; the deck was covered with old buoy hulls, used sinkers (MEGA concrete blocks used to anchor buoys to the ocean floor), and worn chain with no room to do a proper inspection around deck; the crew was tired after twelve to fourteen hour buoys days followed by overnight steams to the next harbor. Overall we were relieved to be heading home in basically one piece.
Less than a day out of San Juan, I was breaking in as the OOD (a young buck officer training to be the Officer of the Deck) with the XO. The familiar routine of underway watch quickly descended upon LAUREL until we received word from COMMSTA Miami for the CO to contact the Seventh District Command Center. To quote the Kenny Rogers’ song “you could hear a pin drop on the floor”,--you really couldn’t because of the fatigue matting, and we had a deck, not a floor, but the concept is the same. We all knew what was coming.
After his call to Miami, the Captain left the Radio Room…wait for it…
“XO, get OPS, the First Lieutenant and the EO in the wardroom, and have Mr. Mooradian relieve the watch.” The Captain left the bridge with an air of certain dispatch…the rest of the officers followed him along the Green Mile.
About ten minutes later, our CO came back to the bridge and took the 1MC (a ship-wide loudspeaker…it’s the military…get used to it) in hand and made the following announcement:
“For the information of all hands (standard for all pipes by this old man, or any old man in a seagoing service), LAUREL has been diverted to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba to assist in the Haitian migration situation. Our return to Mayport is unknown at this time. That is all.”
And that was it…we were en route GTMO, jewel of the Caribbean, the port call of port calls, the place…whatever, it was a military base on a communist island. LAUREL had to figure out what to do; in my six short months aboard, we had done exactly NO MULTI MISSION work, strictly ATON.
The closer we got to GTMO, the more radio traffic, Coast Guard or otherwise, increased. We tried to call our brother cutters with little success. It turns out that LAUREL had never loaded codes to the secure radios…we were broadcasting in the clear all night and never picked up on the other boats yelling at us that we were, basically, incompetent…it was one of those trips.
Upon arriving at Cuba, we made preparations for entering port around 0700, including the bridge crew wearing tropical blue long uniforms…I’m not sure why either—to impress the mighty collection of cutters there, I suppose. We were a buoy tender for god’s sake, not some 378! It was December and a bit “rolly” out at the entrance; nothing extreme, but 180 don’t have a keel in any true sense, and the boat had a proclivity toward rolling when you least expected it or wanted it. As a young ensign out of the Academy, I was not exactly “sea savvy.” I sat down to breakfast with relish…eggs over easy, soggy bacon, couple pieces of toast, and a full glass of ice-cold milk (some of the last milk we had). The 1LT was beside me with a slight, knowing grin growing on his face and had a smaller plate and nothing to drink in front of him.
I never saw what hit me.
We took a patented LAUREL roll to starboard, and the plate and glass of milk decided that my trop pants would break their fall to the wardroom deck. So with about 8 minutes until we set navigation detail, I’m wearing my formerly cleanest pair of dress pants, and they have just been introduced to the cook’s best breakfast…and a full glass of milk.
“Well, there is a good lesson learned their young Jeff” the 1LT had a manner about him that told me he thought I was an idiot but would not come right out and say I was an idiot.
“In my experience, I’m not willing to put on my plate or in my glass anything that I wouldn’t be willing to wear.”
I wanted to utter a famously, outrageously remarkable comeback, but all I muttered was a perfunctory:
“Thanks, Dan.”
Because it was at that moment that I realized he was right, and his psalm-like advice was some of the best I’ve received in my career, and I’ve been more than willing to share that with my shipmates in the past 16 years. Again, it was that kind of trip.
After a quick change into a new pair of dress trou, I headed to the bridge and our destiny ahead of us (that sounds a bit too Titanic, but hey, it’s my story…). We steamed into GTMO with all the grace a 180 could muster and found ourselves amongst the largest collection of Coast Guard cutters in any one port since World War II; in all honesty, it was an impressive sight; 210s, 270s, some of the legacy MECs and a 378. Coming in and out of port regularly, the pointy end of the tip of the Coast Guard spear, those absolutely fantastic, powerful, tough, defenders of freedom, the 110’ patrol boats (yes, I may be a bit biased, but again, it’s my story…you don’t like 110s write something yourself). Bottom line, I think the rest of the fleet felt an immense weight lifted from their collective shoulders as LAUREL quietly glided into port…help was finally here…one black hull…we…were...going to…save…the…day!
We may have had a few challenges (I think consultants would call them “opportunities”). We had little food for ourselves, no security to speak of, no supplies of any sort for migrants, low on fuel and water, no codes for the radios (even if we knew how to load them), basically no clue on what to do.
We had GTMO right where we wanted them…I don’t think they knew what they were in for by bringing in a black hull.
XO gathered his minions together--back then, I was but a mere minion, my lot in life has improved somewhat—and developed a game plan. As FSO and Admin officer, I was tasked with getting migrant , and my cooks had to scrounge whatever victuals they could roust out for the crew. The deckies had to figure out a way to clear more than 50 tons of buoys from the deck, clean it up, and develop a security plan. The engineers refueled, came up with a head and shower configuration and a water conservation policy (LAUREL could not make water).
I left for parts unknown (I think every sea story needs a “parts unknown” clause) to find out what supplies to get and how to get them. After a bit of bureaucratic double speak I found the Coast Guard liaison officer, and he helped me procure hundreds of pounds of rice and beans. The YN and SK also received some training on how to process our future guests aboard LAUREL. I think my division has done a pretty good job of prepping the cutter for our mission. What did I know, I was an ensign…
The three of us returned to a cutter amid a chaotic CF of a scene in progress. Deckies scrubbing the buoy deck with hand brushes, DCs building toilettes, and showers, truck after truck dropping off blankets, shower shoes, soda, food (migrant and LAUREL), our guys were coming back in trucks, vans, Cushman carts, you name it. My SK, , and I are walking back with nothing in hand. Our 300 pounds of rice and beans haven’t made it. The XO is on the quarterdeck orchestrating this act, and he looks at us and gives us the “I appreciate you getting into the fight” condescending look of someone too busy to be bothered. It was one of those trips…
As I am wallowing in my pathetically feeble attempts to assist in the effort, another pickup truck screams down the pier. LAUREL’s ET2 came out from behind the wheel with an MK2 and proceeded to offload supplies rivaling WALMART. More rice and beans than I even ordered (and still had not shown up to the pier….whatever…), flip flops, soda, turkeys, TURKEYS no less, potatoes, milk, playing cards…it was one of those days.
I pulled aside ET2 and asked how he did this. A wry sort of look worked across his face.
“Sir, if I told you all our secrets, you wouldn’t be…”
Something between a shriek crossed with a bellow came across the radio from the 378 and cut off the ET2.
“LAUREL, this is HAMILTON…where is our truck and the keys to the warehouse, over?”
At this point, you can pretty much guess that ET2 was nowhere to be seen, the XO ignored the radio, and the OOD walked away…which is what I did. I can’t confirm this, but apparently, our ET and MK2 stole the van and key and essentially raided the warehouse…twice. Well, I figured the Coast Guard brought it on themselves.
About 1600 rolls around, and we were to be underway in two hours. I was on the quarterdeck with the FS1 talking about menus when the XO comes all but running up from the wardroom, across the fantail to the quarterdeck, and throws me a key ring.
“Bring the truck to the 378 and hurry back. The Commandant will be here in 20 minutes.”
You have got to be kidding was the first thought that came to mind…other thoughts also entered my subconscious voice, but I probably can’t write those on the off chance my nephew ever reads this.
“Mmffmmfmmmfmmph” that’s the best approximation of my mumble that I can come up with.
“What was that, Mister?” our XO was pretty good.
“Yes sir, be happy to bring the stolen van and keys back to SOPA” this was like Han and Luke bringing the plans back to the Princess only to find the Death Star.
I wormed my way around the base toward the 378, parked the truck at the far end of the pier, and as nonchalantly as possible strolled toward their watch shack with as much confidence as I could manage, which wasn’t much. I loitered around the shack for a second until I saw an OOD-like officer in trops…made my commando approach, and threw them the keys, told thanks and that we were getting underway tomorrow morning. Now, if you note, I didn’t tell them who was thanking them and tried to throw them off the case by lying about our underway time. I then, with little dignity, ran back to LAUREL. It was one of those trips…
OK, the deed was done, career still basically intact, underway soon and out of danger. Remember though, I was an ensign; nothing is that simple, ever.
Out of breath, shirt untucked, spilling sweat all over the pier, I ran into the Commandant, the Seventh District Command, and about 138 (give or take) captains who had come to visit the cutters in GTMO, including LAUREL. Nearly back to the boat, and I am caught by more stars than I bet Carl Sagan could count. I tried to salute, greet the senior officers with some form of decorum and made an utter ass of myself—in front of the CO and XO on LAUREL’s quarterdeck. It was one of those trips….
The story continues…
Part II…The Return
Mercifully we took in all lines and sailed toward the claw of Haiti to rendezvous with CGC THETIS to take 183 migrants off their deck. This was the easy part; get the migrants, bring them back to Cuba, and wait for someone to take them. My experience with Haiti was limited to TV reports and stories from other Coasties. I assumed they were not that smart, didn’t have much pride, not clean, basically not a fine people. I couldn’t have been more wrong. We had a reasonably uneventful transfer with the 270 and started a slow steam back. Although at one point during the transfer, the deck was a wee bit unorganized, and the Captain polity requested (read: ordered) that our XO get below and take charge. This was a Mastercard-esque moment…the look on XO’s face was priceless.
The migrants on deck were from the same village and made every effort to recreate some semblance of order. They made an area for families with kids, asked for paper and pens and made meal tickets to ensure everyone received a meal, and at night sang songs together. Someone produced a bible, and they organized a study group every night. One gentleman came forward who spoke passable English and assumed the role of de facto leader. When some of the younger men, late teens, early and twenties, acted up and tried to cut in line, the group policed themselves. Every morning they had their own version of sweepers to keep the deck clean; when they realized that the showers were saltwater, they respectfully asked for freshwater for bathing. Even though we had limited water, the Captain decided to grant their request.
This experience was quite the lesson learned for a young junior officer named Dow. Families with small children, pregnant women, men older than my grandfather all tried to escape in an unseaworthy sailboat…risk everything to get away from Haiti. Nothing in my mind could comprehend what would drive other people to such ends. I then realized I had truly been an ass making the assumptions I did. These were a fine group of people only wanting to improve their lives and provide a better one for their children. How is that not an admirable trait, yet here we were preventing them from coming to the United States and sending them back. It was one of those trips.
We made it back to GTMO and tied up to old battleship quays (pronounced “keys,” by the way, don’t blame me, I’m not Webster). We were not ashore per se…we could secure the mains (turn off the engines) but no brow, no access to the base. Unfortunately, we needed more supplies and a lot of them--quickly.
I was the XO’s Admin Assistant was a kind way of saying I was his bitch boy…it wasn’t a glamorous job—which meant I was in for the task of my career…being a bitch boy and all…
The XO called me into the wardroom to give me my quest, a pep talk, and a quick kick in the ass to get off the boat.
“OK, here’s the list of things we need. You have as much time as you need. Good luck.”
I looked at the list:
· Enfamil…what in God’s green earth is Enfamil?
· Diapers, Depends…are you kidding me?
· Tarp from SIMA…where in the hell is SIMA? What the hell is SIMA?
· I can’t even pronounce the name of this pump…(probably from Viking)
· Log and weather sheets…no way, we ran out of log sheets?
· About ten other items ending with…a parachute.
OK…enough!!
“XO, parachute…parachute, what the **** do we need a parachute for, a parachute,” hoping that repetition of the word parachute would make it go away.
“The migrants.”
“Sir, I know the migrants, but what are we going to actually do with a parachute?”
“Shade.”
“Sir, what is the tarp from SIMA (still don’t know where that is) for?”
“Shade.”
It was one of those trips.
All right, I tried another line of questions.
“Is the YN (yeoman…administrative expert) or the SK (storekeeper…supply expert) coming in to help out?”
“Neither, too busy here, you are on your own.”
Suppressing a sigh that probably would have gotten me dismissed from the Coast Guard, I asked, “Well, how do I pay for this stuff?” In my ensign addled mind, a perfectly legitimate question.
“Yeah, about that…do your best…can’t help you there.”
You got to be kidding me…
“OK, what radio can I get, probably not one of the coded ones, they…”
“No radio, can’t spare ‘em with the security teams.”
It was one of those trips.
So, I went to the buoy deck, took a little boat ride to the base on the RHI (rigid hull inflatable boat), and was left on the pier by myself. No money, no help, no radio, and when I asked about a government vehicle, the XO actually laughed out loud and left the wardroom shaking his head.
I had little to no idea what half this stuff was, let alone where to get it. So I figured diapers and Depends were the easiest…I’d just go to the exchange and maybe from there figure out where the DRMO (supply depot) was located. I had to walk—remember no vehicle—and after only an hour of aimless wandering, found a sign that lead to the exchange. It turns out that Enfamil is some obscure form of baby food and not too far from diapers, Depends were easiest enough to find. And on the way out, I passed the record department (although records are pretty much extinct…it will always be the record department to me). Well, a few weeks prior to our arrival U2 released Achtung Baby, their breakthrough and break away record (I was and still am partial to WAR….there best effort in my mind)…I am a slightU2 fan, so I thought I’d pick up the cassette (yes cassette, records, I am apparently old to these young bucks…). You wouldn’t believe the consternation this caused while on my Quest for the Grail:
Is it legal for me to buy this cassette?
Is it fair for me to get this, and no one else can?
What if someone finds out that I used an official trip for personal business?
Wait…wait…wait a minute…I’m at the exchange in GTMO, Cuba buying BABY food with my OWN money, and I have to find a friggin’ parachute somewhere on this hell hole!!! Momentary moral dilemma solved…I bought the record and couldn’t wait to get back and finally listen to it.
I have exactly three things on my albatross list (plus the cassette), and I am now forced to scramble to locate various and sundry items, cold calling places by begging Navy offices to let this Coast Guard ensign use their phones. You should have seen THOSE conversations and, better yet, my explanations:
“Hello, my name is ENS—“
“I don’t care, what do you want?”
“Yeah, OK, see I’m on the buoy tender that—“
“What the hell is a buoy tender?”
Again with one of my patented self-contained sighs…stay focused here, killer.
“Yeah, here to help with the Haitian migration issue, I just—“
“Kid, we are in Cuba, not Haiti.”
And so on, it was one of those trips.
So the day went on with my trying to find this conifal valve or that moondande converter. It got to the point where I would stash my loot in bushes because I couldn’t carry it all. At one point, a van with three Coast Guard YNs passed me and gave me a lift (I don’t think they knew I was an ensign) and took me to SIMA of all places. Tarp recovered!
Two items left. Log sheets and that damn parachute. I had a buddy on COURAGEOUS and was confident I could get the log sheets but a parachute. I asked, pleading, begging, cajoling people all day, and they looked at me with glassy eyes and told me to trundle away. If this wasn’t tilting at windmills, nothing else was, but I felt a need to get this damn parachute and return triumphantly to LAUREL.
One final call, one shot, a warehouse on the edge of town, that no one goes to. The van YNs turned me on to this; kind of a recycling plant, spare parts drawer, catch-all building. I got the number and went through my routine, explaining to just get to the phone and made the fateful phone call.
“Yeello,” the voice on the other end sounded bemused.
“Yes, I heard you carry some miscellaneous supplies.”
“Yep, sure do.” He liked his “Y”s.
“Yeah, I need to get a, ahh, I was wondering if you had a…well” here it goes…” a parachute.” I just expected to get humiliated by this.
“You are kidding me” here it comes…” can you be here in 10 minutes?”—very hushed tones…shhhhhhh we are hunting saber-toothed wabbits…
“You are serious? I’ll be right there,” like I could say anything else…even though I had no car, no directions…you remember.
I somehow found my way to an apparently abandoned-looking warehouse that was clearly not abandoned. A gentleman wearing a greasy ball cap and non-military coveralls sat behind a counter reading a year-old issue of Popular Something. He glanced at me and asked:
“You have to be that ensign that called. Your lucky day, kid.”
He had no idea.
He pulled out a crumpled paper grocery bag that was in its at least 27th use and placed it squarely on the center of the counter. And what to my wondering eyes did appear but a red and white parachute…queue the “Hallelujah” music.
“How much?”
“Nothing…just got it and, it’s not on inventory.”
No way. “Thanks, man, you have no idea.”
It’s sad to say, but to that point in my career, this was the crowning achievement (and looking back, it may still be). I still had to get the logs, but I spent the better part of eight hours on this base and got everything on my list!
I went to COURAGEOUS, talked to a friend of mine, got the logs, and borrowed a radio. LAUREL sent over the RHI, and with a landing party, I gathered up my hidden treasure to make my way back to the cutter. En route, I called the bridge and asked to talk to the XO.
“LAUREL, LAUREL 1…is the XO on the bridge.”
“Roger that.”
“Can you ask him to go to the bridge wing?”
Our intrepid XO emerged from the bridge in time to see me in the front of the RHI a la GEN Macarthur with the parachute raised overhead in Stanley Cup fashion.
“How’s this for a parachute…that’s right….right here buddy…take this parachute and…” I said more, but I wasn’t as tough as I sounded…the XO couldn’t hear a word.
The supplies made it aboard…and the parachute…never went to the buoy deck. When I left mighty LAUREL eighteen months later, I searched our cargo hold for about six hours looking for that damn thing to take as a trophy. It was gone. It was one of those trips. On an interesting note, I made the Captain’s Christmas newsletter…he mentioned that I had some untapped talents in “acquisitions” and likened my trip as a cross between MASH and McHale’s Navy…I guess it was good to be known for something.
There is more to the story about LAUREL’s trek ashore and ringing the bell at the O-Club, but that, my friends, is a story for another day…
